The Lady of Baker Street
by Pariaritzia
Summary: Sherlock Holmes never had a particularly high opinion of womankind. Nor did he think much of marriage. Until, that is, while investigating the mysterious death of Sir Charles Baskerville, he met his match in Mirela Cadieux. Eventual Holmes X OC; starts off canon-ish then goes AU.
1. Chapter 1

**My first fanfic. A piece of information given not as an entreaty for soft reviews and false compliments, but as a request for constructive criticism. I cannot improve without suggestions.**

**The likelihood of this piece's accuracy in keeping with the real Holmes stories is dubious, especially for the more meticulous readers of Doyle's works. I apologize in advance. My purpose is to create my own impression of Holmes's world, and if anyone disagrees with or harps on timing/placement/personality/etc., that's fine too. To each his own.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Holmes, why would I say not to expect accuracy?**

**Bonne lecture.**

"_You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"_

"_No, indeed!" _

—**The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton; The Return of Sherlock Holmes; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

On an unremarkable street in London, a rather remarkable detective and his unremarkable friend discussed remarkable ideas.

On a grey moor in Devonshire, a pair of rather colorful sisters and their grey guardian carried out a less-than-colorful life.

Little did any of them know it, but soon, quite soon, sooner than any of them would anticipate, the paths of each would cross.

And none would be the same again.

SHSHSH

In September of 1888, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of 221 B Baker Street, was currently faced with what was likely the most difficult case of his illustrious career.

Flowers.

"You see," said Dr. Watson, pacing fretfully round his friend's sitting room, "Mary's favourite flowers happen to roses, but it's difficult enough to find roses in London when they _are_ in season, much less now! Yet it _is_ her birthday tomorrow, and I should like to give her something, but I cannot think of anything else." He looked helplessly at Holmes, who merely returned the glance uninterestedly through half-lowered lids and put his pipe to his lips. "Can you think of anything?"

"My dear Watson," said Holmes after a moment, with a touch of amusement, "if you, who has lived with Miss Morstan—Mrs. Watson, rather—for three months now, are unable to settle upon a gift for her, then what could I possibly contribute?"

Watson made an impatient sound. "Seeing as you appear to know everything that goes on in the world at once, you might at least tell me where I can find some roses."  
"What _is_ a rose?" Holmes began thoughtfully, but Watson interjected.

"Oh, no!" he said warningly. "Don't you start quoting Tennyson or whomever—"

"_Shakespeare_, Watson," Holmes corrected, astonished, taking another draught of his pipe. "Honestly. If you want Tennyson I can give you it—but I think I shall let well alone the space of flowers within its four grey walls," he said hastily, noticing Watson's expression. "My point is that, while your wife may like roses—which, I assume," he added with a slight curl of his lip, "is meant to represent your affection for her—another token, one easier to find and happily less a strain on the pocketbook, would suffice." Another draught. "In short, I believe Mrs. Watson will be delighted with whatever you choose to give her, whether it be roses or rye bread."

"Very well and good," said Watson impatiently, "but her birthday is _tomorrow_. What can I get on such short notice?"

"A book," said Holmes, almost immediately. "Your wife likes to read, doesn't she?" He smiled sardonically. "Give her a book of Tennyson and the Lady of Paddington District shall be satisfied."  
Watson blinked and threw a sharp look at Holmes, who took yet another draught of his pipe with an entirely innocent air.

"Droll, Holmes," he said, shaking his head. "You _do_ think you're funny."

"I _am_ funny," Holmes replied lazily, glancing at the clock. "You just have a terrible sense of humour. The shops will close in an hour, Watson, so you'd better hurry along. Not to mention that your wife will be wondering where you are."

"Mary knows me too well for that," sighed Watson, donning his coat and retrieving his hat. "The moment I'm home she'll first ask if you're well, then give me an arch look and ask if I've finally found her a gift or not. I'm doomed to live with people who know everything about my whereabouts…"

He bid Holmes farewell and let himself out. The house seemed strangely quiet without the good doctor's presence, and Holmes, in a rare fit of loneliness rose to stand at the window.

"If I had a low opinion of womankind before, it is only increased now," he muttered.

Not that he disliked Miss Morstan—Mrs. Watson, he corrected himself again—but he did not appreciate the loss of his Boswell. Worse, cases were few and far between nowadays, and oftentimes he thought that if it weren't for tobacco he may die of restlessness.

He almost wanted to laugh at the notion that _tobacco_ was keeping him alive.

"Mr. Holmes!"

…Tobacco and Mrs. Hudson's cooking, that is.

"Mr. Holmes, you haven't taken any dinner yet and it's already past seven-thirty!" the motherly housekeeper scolded, bustling in and eyeing him much as a discerning housewife eyes a quarter of meat at the butcher. "You're much too thin since the doctor's got married, you hardly eat anything anymore!"

"I ate half a pot roast two nights ago, madam," said Holmes dryly, setting his pipe on the mantel. "I'm afraid I am still digesting it." He sighed. "But I shall oblige your wishes this evening. What have you made?"

"Trout, sir, and I worked hard on it, too."  
"Excellent," said Holmes, heading for the table as the housekeeper turned to the kitchen to bring in dinner. "I feared more red meat. You're a lovely woman, Mrs. Hudson."  
"Oh, go on, sir," said the older woman good-naturedly, setting the platter before him. "Now you eat this up and I've made a pie as well for afterwards…"

She returned to the kitchen. Holmes looked down at the glazed trout and vegetables gracing his plate, took a bite, and grinned inwardly.

A few more bites of this, and his opinion of womankind may just surpass Watson's.

SHSHSH

"I hope you fall in a hole and break your leg! I hope you get sick on mouldy bread! I hope the Notting Hill murderer chops your head off in the middle of the night! I hope—"

"What on God's green earth is the child ranting on about now?" cried Mrs. Miller in exasperation, huffing her way up the staircase. "I do wish your sister would not ramble on in Romany like that, Mirela dear, it's really quite rude since only you can understand it, and all _I_ can understand is some nonsense about Notting Hill—"

"Not Notting Hill," said Mirela quickly, silently thanking fate for sending her and her sister to a family whose knowledge of Romany equaled their knowledge of coal-tar derivatives. "It's—ah—a word in Romany she was saying. It likely just _sounded_ like Notting Hill because she's speaking over her shoulder."

"Oh! Well, then, I haven't the slightest clue what she is saying. _Do_ stop running, Miss Tsura, it's _most_ unbecoming in a lady of sixteen!"

"I don't care!" Tsura shouted, still in Romany, as she turned away from the staircase and disappeared around the corner.

Mirela made an impatient noise as she reached the top of the stairs and turned left into the hallway to search for Tsura's usual hiding spot. "In English, Tsuritsa!" she ordered, using her sister's childhood nickname in an attempt to placate her.

"It's too hard! I'm too upset! I hate English! I hate England! I hate—"

Mirela located the broom closet and yanked it open to reveal her sister, who sat on an upturned bucket.

"I hate it here," Tsura sniffed.

"I don't like it either," said Mirela, softening slightly and speaking in Romany. "But Sir Baskerville is kind to let us live here without any sort of payment. We've been here for a year now and you should try to respect our guardians."

"I don't like Mrs. Miller," Tsura protested, though with less vehemence. "She's an awful chaperone, she makes me wear a—a—I don't know—"

"Corset," Mirela supplied.

"Yes, that—and Miri, it squeezes my waist and I can't run in it—"

"You shouldn't be running at all," Mirela reminded her gently. "But I understand, I don't like it either. It's not at all like what we wore with Maman and Papa in France, yes? Now come out of there and I'll see that Mrs. Miller does not scold you too much."

"I'm not going to apologize," said Tsura fiercely, obeying her elder sister and standing. "She ought to know not to force me to speak in English. She ought to know it frustrates me when I can't express myself."

"You need to try."

"I _do_ try! But the rules make no sense and the sounds are so odd, and unlike you, I didn't spend two summers in London and have no real practice—"

"Miss Tsura!" Mrs. Miller had finally caught up to them. "Miss Tsura, what horrid behaviour, utterly unbecoming in a young lady! Now you come downstairs at once and finish your lessons—"

"I think," interrupted Mirela, seeing the sullen look on Tsura's face, "that it would be in our best interest to end lessons for today and have a bit of a holiday. Don't you agree?"

"Why—I suppose," said their chaperone, rather foolishly. "So long as Miss Tsura promises not to throw such fits tomorrow."

Mirela looked at Tsura, whose expression darkened. "I still can't be English," she said in Romany, though to her credit she looked a little sorry.

"_Si anglais est __trop__difficile__, __parle__ en français_," Mirela instructed.

"_Je promets__ d'être bonne demain_," said Tsura immediately, to Mrs. Miller's relief.

"Marvelous! Now run along, girls—or actually, _don't_ run along—but take a little break and enjoy yourselves…and Mirela dear," she added, lowering her voice as Tsura instantly set off for the gardens, "do try to keep her under control, won't you?"  
_That's supposed to be _your_ job_, Mirela thought with some contempt, but she bit her tongue and merely nodded, smiling as genuinely as she could before turning to follow Tsura. Mrs. Miller sighed heavily and ponderously made her way back downstairs, presumably to complain to a sympathetic Mrs. Barrymore of the "capricious nature of these half-Gypsy, half-French girls."

SHSHSH

"It's so gloomy here."  
Mirela looked up from her book to see Tsura standing at the window, mournfully contemplating the fog.

"This isn't Nice," she reminded her, a teasing note in her voice. "This is England. The moor, furthermore. What do you expect, sun and sand?"

"No, but—" Tsura sighed and went over to the bed beside her sister's, tucking herself in tightly. "It's so _cold_ all the time. And grey. And Sir Baskerville is good to us, but he's rather grey himself."  
Mirela could not suppress a smile. "That is true," she allowed. "We haven't much company here, not company our age, anyway."

"Such is the consequence of being sixteen and twenty-one in a world of middle-aged adults," Tsura lamented dramatically, flourishing a hand. "Absolute _ennui_. Boredom," she said, speaking the last word in English with emphasis. "It says much that the English word I know best is _boredom_."

"Oh, hush," said Mirela, though she still smiled. She shut her book, set it on the side table, and leaned over to blow out her candle. "I'm sure _something_ will happen here."  
"Like what?" Tsura demanded, the hazel eyes she had inherited from their French father wide in the darkness. "The Notting Hill murderer escapes from prison? Mrs. Miller finally lets me go one day without a blasted corset? Sir Baskerville is murdered by the infamous hound?"

"_Tsuritsa_," said Mirela reproachfully, and was gratified to see her sister looked duly abashed. "Don't even wish for that last one."

"I'm not, I just…well, sometimes it seems more likely that you'd end up married to an Englishman than it is that something exciting would happen here."  
"Me, married to an Englishman?" laughed Mirela, as the clock struck midnight. Tsura began to laugh as well. "Tsuritsa, I might not dislike this country as much as you do, but I'm not about to marry a native of it! I think you have that backwards; perhaps it's more likely something exciting will happen than it is that I would marry an Englishman. Now we ought to sleep, it's horribly late…"

They said their goodnights and each girl fell silent. It sometimes took a half hour or more for her to fall asleep, especially when she was still chuckling over a comment of Tsura's (an Englishman? _Really_? As if an Englishman would dare even be _seen_ in public with a half-Gypsy, half-French girl), and Mirela was just beginning to drift off when—

"Up! Everybody up!"

Barrymore's voice shot through the thick wooden door, followed by a harsh rap. The girls sat straight up in alarm, exchanged worried looks, then scrambled out of bed and hurried out into the hall, wrapping their robes about them as they went.

The entire household was gathered by the staircase (for once even Mrs. Miller moved with haste), arranged in a loose circle around Barrymore, who looked frantic.

"Perkins, go and send for Dr. Mortimer, right away—no, no, don't ask questions, just fetch him and tell him it is urgent—now ladies, please do not be afraid, I am certain we are safe within the hall—"

"Afraid of _what_? Safe from _what_?" Tsura interjected, irritated, as Perkins left. "Stop rambling!"

"You're really one to talk of rambling," muttered Mirela in Romany, receiving an elbow jab. "I notice your English skills have returned."

Other than another elbow jab, Tsura appeared not to have heard. Barrymore hesitated, glanced at his pale wife and a drowsy Mrs. Miller, then said in a rush, "Sir Baskerville is dead."

Mrs. Miller, who suddenly seemed much more awake, gave a small scream and promptly declared she would faint. Mrs. Barrymore turned even paler and gripped her husband's hand. The girls exchanged another look, shock evident on their faces.

"H—how? When?" asked Mrs. Barrymore, ignoring Mrs. Miller's attempts to swoon upon her husband's shoulder.

"He did not come in after his walk," said Barrymore in a hushed voice, looking haunted, "so I went searching for him—and I found him—ten minutes ago—" His voice broke. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued. "And there was something else, dear."  
Everyone waited with bated breath. Mirela had a horrible feeling she knew what he would say.

"There were footprints," Barrymore said, so quietly the women had to strain to hear him. "At first I thought they were the footprints of—of"—he struggled with the word—"of Sir Baskerville's murderer, but upon closer inspection I saw—"

_Yes_, thought Mirela, _yes, I know what's coming_.

"They were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

Mrs. Miller screamed again, and then she really did faint.

"I will never," whispered Tsura in Romany, as Barrymore and his wife hurried to revive the insensible lady, "_ever_ ask for excitement again."

"You'd better not," Mirela said thoughtfully, frowning at the sight of a fluttering, semiconscious Mrs. Miller, who, much to Mrs. Barrymore's annoyance, found it necessary to use Barrymore's strong arm for support. "As, thanks to your comments, it seems I shall have to marry an Englishman after all."

Tsura snorted. "Right," she said sceptically. "As you said, I had it backwards. It's more likely the Notting Hill murderer will escape…" She grinned. "Or, maybe, more likely that Mrs. Miller will think me so devastated by Sir Baskerville's death that she'll let me forgo a corset tomorrow…"

"Not that we aren't upset, of course," Mirela murmured, as their chaperone finally regained full consciousness and alternately thanked Barrymore (pointedly ignoring Mrs. Barrymore) and wept over the news of Sir Baskerville. "We're just not close enough to him to grieve, not after enduring the death of two parents simultaneously…though honestly, Tsura, I'll laugh over that one for an age…me, marry an Englishman…_really_…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Merci to those who read, and merci beaucoup to those who reviewed!**

***WhiteAngel: Votre anglais est parfait. Ne vivez pas avec peur :) **

**Note: the line break function failed to work properly, so I re-posted with extra space between sections until I get everything sorted out correctly. Sorry about that…**

**Again, I don't own anything except this rather slow laptop and this jar of Nutella I am eating out of (and should probably put away before I devour it entirely).**

**Bonne lecture.**

"_I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes…"_

"_Why do you hesitate?"_

"_There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless."_

"_You mean that the thing is supernatural?"_

—**The Hound of the Baskervilles; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

"I am _quite_ convinced this entire business is supernatural!"

Mrs. Miller's shrill voice echoed through Baskerville Hall as she plodded down the staircase towards the library.

"Really, Mirela dear"—for Mirela, who was carrying a heavy armful of chemistry textbooks and only half-listened to her chaperone's nonsensical remarks, was also making her way down the stairs—"if such a sensible, _practical_ man like Dr. Mortimer fears this is the work of"—Mrs. Miller's voice lowered almost comically—"_the other side_, then surely he is correct! Such a man can hardly be inaccurate in his assumptions! And furthermore—"

Mirela tuned her out entirely and quickened her pace to reach the library first. Inside awaited Tsura, who sat in a chair by the window and rolled her eyes as Mrs. Miller followed the elder sister.

"—even Mr. Barrymore looked frightened—"

"Is she still going on about last week?" Tsura asked quietly in Romany.

"What else does she talk about nowadays?" replied Mirela, sighing and setting the textbooks on a nearby table. "I spent half the night reading these."

"You read faster than anyone I know," remarked Tsura, eyeing the books with some distaste. "I can't imagine how you stand it."

"Chemistry is interesting," said Mirela simply. "Did you know that phosphorus, when prepared correctly, won't have any smell, so you can smear it all over an animal—like a dog—and it'll glow without interfering with the creature's sense of smell?"

Tsura yawned. "No, I didn't know that. Nor do I care to know it now. I don't even know what phosphorus _is_. And if you keep talking like that, it'll sound like _you're_ responsible for setting the hound on Sir Baskerville."

"Ha, ha," said Mirela dryly. "I don't even _like_ dogs. I hate when Dr. Mortimer brings his spaniel over…"  
"Are you joking?" Tsura asked incredulously. "That spaniel is adorable! But speaking of hounds reminds me: you're doomed."  
"Doomed?"

"Yes! Now you _have_ to marry an Englishman! Old biddy over there—"

"_Tsuritsa_."

"—oh, don't act like you don't call her that in your head—but anyway, she's let me go without a corset _all week_. And Perkins told me this morning that the Notting Hill murderer's escaped."  
"Oh." Mirela sat in the chair across from her sister's. "I _am_ doomed. Whom shall I marry, do you think?"

Tsura's eyes sparkled. "Sir Henry Baskerville, maybe?"

"Ha! Right. Mr. Stapleton's sister will likely take that spot—she's ten times prettier and English, too. No—perhaps the Notting Hill murderer shall sneak into our room one night and fall madly in love with me, and the two of us shall elope to Gretna Green, then back to Nice."  
Tsura clapped her hands in mock delight. "Excellent! May I come?"  
"But of course! We'll need a witness for the marriage, won't we? And I'll need someone to stay awake at night and guard me, in case my husband's murderous tendencies overpower his undying affection for me…"

"What are you girls babbling about?" called Mrs. Miller, who had finished her oft-repeated monologue about "the other side." "Speak in French, at the very least, I can't understand a word…"

"That's the point," Tsura muttered, but said louder, "_Oui__, Madame Miller. __Comme__ vous __désirez_." She fell silent for a moment, then said suddenly, "Have you heard from Dr. Mortimer yet, from London?"

"Oh yes!" said Mrs. Miller, replying, to Tsura's great irritation, in English. "He sent a missive this morning. He has already been to see the detective. Unfortunately Mr. Holmes cannot come himself—which astonishes me, considering how very _important_ Sir Baskerville is—was…" She trailed off, and for a moment Mirela feared she would erupt into yet another rant about the supernatural air about the entire affair. To the girls' intense relief, their chaperone merely plowed onward after a brief silence. "Anyhow, Dr. Mortimer will be returning tomorrow afternoon with a friend of Mr. Holmes's and"—here her voice took on a thrill of excitement—"_Sir Henry Baskerville himself_!"

This pronouncement was met with decidedly less enthusiasm than Mrs. Miller believed it merited; Tsura yawned again and Mirela just blinked.

"Er…good," she said finally, utterly unaffected. "I suppose we'll receive our inheritances soon, if he's coming?"

"_Mirela_," chided Mrs. Miller. "You shouldn't speak of money so brazenly! I'm surprised at you!"

"We're poor!" Tsura snapped, rolling her eyes. "Of course we'll talk of money! It's only a hundred pounds between us, but it's better than nothing! And don't act like you're not excited for you money, too—you're getting a hundred pounds all to yourself!"  
Mrs. Miller's eyes bulged. "Miss Tsura!" she gasped indignantly, though both girls noticed that their chaperone's cheeks coloured pink. "Such impudence! Ladies are not supposed to discuss finance! Now come along upstairs, you are obviously not going to study, and we need to choose what you shall wear tomorrow for Sir Henry Baskerville's arrival…and Mirela, you had better come, too, goodness knows the child won't listen to my advice…"

SHSHSH

_From this point onward I will follow the course of events by transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the table. One page is missing…_

—**The Hound of the Baskervilles, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

_Baskerville Hall, September 13__th__. MY DEAR HOLMES:_

_My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world.…_

_ I must keep you in touch with some of the other factors in the situation.…_

I have already written to you of Mr. Frankland, Barrymore and his wife, Stapleton and his fair sister, and the few servants and farmers on the moor. You have met Dr. Mortimer and likely have formed your own conclusions; I have not had much contact with him as of late, and cannot add to our collection of facts. However, there are three more residents of Baskerville Hall, of whom I have not yet written not due to lack of relevance—for I believe a point or two concerning two of the residents would contribute greatly to this investigation—but due to lack of words to describe them. I think, however, that I can now do them justice.

The first is a rather unremarkable woman by the name of Mrs. Miller. She is chaperone to the two girls I will mention in a moment; she is rather stout and plain, much like Mrs. Barrymore, and spends her time either scolding the girls or complaining to whomever will listen. I do not find her of much interest, but the girls she is caretaker for seems highly intriguing.

Their names are Mirela and Tsura Cadieux, of a Gypsy mother and a French father. The elder, Miss Mirela, was twenty-one this past August and the younger will be seventeen in a month. Two years ago the parents died of illness, and due to legal troubles neither girl received her inheritance and both were forced to move from their home in Nice to a rather shabby flat in a town nearby. Miss Mirela took a job in a factory to support herself and her sister.

Apparently, while he was travelling in France last year, Sir Baskerville visited this factory (which was owned by a friend of his), heard of the girls' plight, and offered them his guardianship in Devonshire until the legal snare surrounding their inheritance cleared. From what I gathered from Mrs. Miller, the case fell through and the inheritance went to a distant, unknown cousin, so Sir Baskerville offered the girls a permanent home in Baskerville Hall, then hired her to help the Misses Cadieux adjust to English life.

Miss Mirela seems very sensible and serious, though she is also quite clever and tends to make rather pert remarks that Mrs. Miller misunderstands entirely. There is a sense of responsibility about her—no doubt from the year of caring for her sister—and she speaks knowledgeably of any topic that is brought up, from flowers to fluorine.

The younger, Miss Tsura, is a bit wilder; she refuses to speak in English unless ordered to by her sister, and chatters on nearly constantly in her own language or French. She is very lively but, like her sister, can sometimes be very grave, especially with matters of finance.

Which brings me to my point in mentioning them so exclusively. The Misses Cadieux received a hundred pounds between them, a near-insignificant sum when compared to the thousand pounds Dr. Mortimer received or the five hundred that each Barrymore inherited. I am aware, my dear Holmes, that you instructed me to stick to facts, but I cannot help but think that the girls' poverty and Sir Baskerville's death may have some correlation. Not to mention that Miss Mirela knows much of chemistry and Miss Tsura has a particular fondness for dogs…if the hound that so frightened Sir Baskerville were set upon him by human means, then would it not seem the Misses Cadieux make the perfect pair to engineer that?

I can see you shaking your head and telling me to stick to facts, so I shall close this letter now with a peculiar event concerning the Barrymores.…

SHSHSH

"His _mustache_," Tsura giggled, as she watched the men set off for dinner at the Stapletons'.

Even with her nose buried in yet another chemistry book, Mirela knew the object of her sister's ridicule.

"Don't be rude, Tsuritsa," she said sharply, as she read a section on Lavoisier's experiments (a Frenchman _and_ a chemist? Divine!).

"I'm not being rude," Tsura argued. "I'm speaking in Romany, so he doesn't know what I'm saying. And it's not like he can hear me…"

Mirela only sighed and shut her book. "Are they going to Mr. Stapleton's house again?"

"Of course." Tsura grinned. "If Mr. Stapleton's not careful, while he's catching butterflies, Sir Henry will catch himself a wife."

"Oh, hush," said Mirela, though she smiled. "They'd make a nice pair, though, wouldn't they?"

Tsura wrinkled her nose. "You're not going to get all maudlin, are you?"  
"Since when have I ever been maudlin?"

"True. And I suppose you're right. Their only obstacle is Mr. Stapleton himself."  
"Which puzzles me," agreed Mirela thoughtfully. "I mean, it's not as if Sir Henry is a bad prospect."  
"Oh, of course," said Tsura, adopting her best impression of Mrs. Miller's most prim expression. "It's certainly not as if he has a title."

"Or a five-hundred-year-old mansion."  
"Or about a million acres of land."

"Or over seven hundred thousand pounds."

"I can _most definitely_ comprehend Mr. Stapleton's aversion to a match between his sister and Sir Henry," Tsura finished, struggling to keep her composure. "Especially when all the advantage would be for Miss Stapleton, and she would be raised out of a perfectly lovely and satisfying life living with her brother and catching _butterflies_."

The word was too much for Mirela, who began to laugh; after a minute her sister joined in, and an irate Mrs. Miller knocked on their door to demand what on God's green earth was funny enough to make them cackle like hooligans—a demand which only made them laugh harder and Mrs. Miller stomp away in a huff.

SHSHSH

"My God, what a day this has been!"

Sir Henry Baskerville collapsed into an armchair by the fire, his dark brow furrowed and his face lined with weariness. Dr. Watson took a seat across from the baronet, watching the younger man worriedly.

"First all that nonsense from Stapleton, then Barrymore's brother-in-law, then that abominable _sound_…" Sir Henry shuddered. "A man shouldn't like to be rejected, lied to, and scared out of his wits in such a space of time, Watson."

"No, indeed," replied Watson, thinking hard. "This may seem sudden, Sir Henry, but did you see a man upon the tor after we failed to catch Selden?"

"A man?" echoed Sir Henry.

"Yes—a tall, thin man, with his arms crossed and his head bowed, standing upon the tor. It was not Selden, I am sure of it—this man was far too tall."

Sir Henry chuckled. "Perhaps our adventures have excited your imagination, Watson."  
"I did not imagine him!" said Watson, a bit heatedly. "He was there, I tell you!"  
Sir Henry shrugged. "He was most likely a warder," he said, unconcerned. "What with Selden on the loose, the moor's been full of warders. I don't think you ought to worry too much about it."

"Perhaps not…"

"We ought to get to bed," said Sir Henry after a moment, checking his watch. "After such a day I could do with a rest…my God, I hope that hound—or whatever it was—does not howl again, or I may never sleep again…"

SHSHSH

The next morning found the baronet in a black mood and Watson in a contemplative one. At breakfast he hardly heard Mrs. Miller's shrill grievances or Miss Tsura's foreign chatter. He barely touched his toast and tea, a fact Miss Mirela noticed with some curiosity, for usually the mustachioed man ate nearly as much as the baronet.

After breakfast there was a rather awkward scene between Sir Henry, Watson, and Barrymore, during which the butler told Sir Henry, in no uncertain terms, that it was wrong to pursue Selden when they had been taken into the Barrymores' confidence; after a bit of arguing, apologizing, and much intervention by Watson it was determined that Selden would leave for South America, Sir Henry and Watson would look the other way, and many a taxpayer would have one less inmate for whom to pay.

Following such a conversation, Watson wished for a walk, but as the day had dawned grey and drizzly he was forced to pace in the library. Miss Mirela sat in a chair by the window, a rather thick tome in her lap which apparently required her full and utmost attention. If Watson had not been so occupied he might have noticed that the usually rapid reader had not yet turned a page.

"It doesn't add up," he muttered, loud enough for Mirela to hear. "If there truly was a hound here somewhere, where would it live? What would it eat? Surely such a large creature would devour quite a quantity of food…and what of the man upon the tor? _He_ certainly exists. Did he send the warning to Sir Henry in London? And the hound, the _hound_—I simply am _not_ convinced this entire business is supernatural—"

Mirela suppressed a smile—Mrs. Miller had said much the same sentence only a week earlier, though without the negative—and interrupted Watson's musings.

"Sir? Is everything all right?"

Watson halted before the window by Mirela's seat and blinked confusedly, as if just noticing her presence.

"Ah!" he said, embarrassed. "I did not—I apologize, miss, for disturbing you."  
"That's quite all right," replied Mirela kindly. "If you don't mind my inquiring—are you any further in discovering anything?"

Immediately his expression closed. "Well—I daresay I can't say very much in particular—I have my suspicions, of course—"

"If you can't speak, I understand," said Mirela hastily. "But—and forgive me if this sounds presumptuous—there is something I think you should know about, something I only just heard today." She hesitated, then said, "I think—and you should probably confirm this—I think that the night Sir Baskerville died, he was going to meet a…a lady."  
"A lady?" Watson repeated, doing his best to apply his friend's methods and not jump to conclusions—nor to instantly accept or disregard her words. "How do you know this?"  
"Before breakfast I overheard Mr. Barrymore speaking to his wife," Mirela explained, still hesitantly. "He was telling her that he ought to tell you and Sir Henry that Sir Baskerville was going to meet a lady, as it may help along the case."  
"Do you know which lady? Did he mention?"

"No, but—I think he said something like…" Mirela's brow furrowed. "Comb Tracey? I'm sorry, but I don't really know the place…"

"Coombe Tracey?" Watson checked.

Mirela brightened. "Yes! Yes, that was it! Sorry, my English—I couldn't pronounce it—"

"Perfectly all right," said Watson, hiding his excitement. A new lead! Wouldn't Holmes be proud! "You said you heard this from Mr. Barrymore?"

Mirela nodded. "He may have more information about it. You should check with him."  
"I shall do so right away. Thank you, Miss Cadieux."  
"You're welcome," she answered, and as the good doctor rushed out of the library, she returned to the land of Lavoisier.


	3. Chapter 3

**Merci encore to those who read, especially to those who reviewed as well.**

**This is a bit shorter than the last two chapters. Sorry about that, but I plan to have another one up in two or three days.**

**Bonne lecture.**

"_I thought that you were in Baker Street working out that case of blackmailing."_

"_That was what I wished you to think."_

—**The Hound of the Baskervilles; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

Watson had had a rather tumultuous three days.

Upon receiving Miss Mirela's statement, he had rushed directly to Barrymore and demanded (or, rather, asked politely, because Watson could never bring himself to demand anything) the butler fill in the gaps. To the good doctor's delight, he learned a good deal about the mysterious lady—her initials were L.L., she did reside in Coombe Tracey, and she had had an appointment with Sir Charles at ten o'clock on the night of his death.

After hearing this he wrote a report to Holmes, fervently wishing his friend were with him to take some of the responsibility off his shoulders (Watson had never fully appreciated the work that went into a case until now). The next day he went out for a walk (in the pouring rain, no less—would he _never_ get any luck?) and, by a stroke of the very luck that seemed to have been eluding him, learned from an especially communicative Dr. Mortimer that a woman named Laura Lyons, the daughter of the eccentric and meddlesome Mr. Frankland, lived in Coombe Tracey.

He also had another intriguing conversation with Barrymore, which served to prove Watson's claim that a strange man was living on the moor. However, this information only deepened the mystery—what was the man's purpose? Was he the same who had sent Sir Henry the warning? If the man was a friend, why would he not show himself? And if he was foe, when would he strike? Above all, what errand could possibly be so important that he would live in a stone hut upon a gloomy moor when it rained like the dickens?

The following morning Watson had set out for Coombe Tracey to gain an interview with Mrs. Lyons. To his great disappointment, he gleaned nothing from it that he did not already know; and, bewildered and disheartened, the good doctor had driven back to the Hall—only, to his supreme irritation, be assailed by Mr. Frankland along the way. Evidently Frankland knew of the strange man as well, and in a fit of unwonted friendliness, allowed Watson to view through his telescope the hill upon which the man likely lived. To the surprise of both men, a young boy was ascending it, holding a bundle of something too shapeless to see even with the help of the telescope.

Watson, seeing his chance, had hurriedly made his excuses and, by a roundabout route, made his way to the hill and, by another stroke of luck, found the stone hut in which the mysterious strange probably lived. He had observed the food and supplies, the note reading _Dr Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey_, and had resolved to await the man's arrival…

…which was why, at the current moment, Watson was huddled in the darkest corner of the hut, his pistol cocked and his heart hammering as he heard the clink of the man's boot as he approached. The man stopped, seemed to consider something, then again came nearer, nearer, nearer…a shadow appeared…Watson swallowed and held his pistol steady…and then—

SHSHSH

"_She has a decided genius that way…"_

—**The Sign of Four; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

"Mr. Holmes!"

Mrs. Miller's exclamation, uttered in her usual shriek as she hurried into the entrance hall from the library, made Watson wince.

"That is Mrs. Miller; and there goes any chance of a quiet arrival," he muttered, and Holmes grinned inwardly before turning towards the oddly flustered woman.

"How glad we are to see you at last!" she said, smiling in what she likely thought was a coquettish fashion. "I must admit, I was greatly astonished to hear you were not coming at once with Dr. Watson—Sir Charles was such an important figure you know—I cannot imagine anything being so important as to keep you away from here much longer—"

She was only just gaining steam, and would have gone on for quite some time had Sir Henry not appeared at that moment.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" he said genially, shaking the detective's hand. "Certainly glad you're here—I suppose Dr. Watson's already told you all that's happened with us recently? Yes? Now—say, where your luggage?"

Holmes blinked and looked down at his side as if hoping a valise would materialise out of thin air.

"Er…" He cast about for an excuse. "To be entirely honest, Sir Henry, I haven't a reason for its absence and would appreciate a lack of further questioning on the subject."  
Sir Henry raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. "As you wish," he conceded. "I'm sure Dr. Watson and I can supply your wants, between us—though I think my clothes may be a bit short for you." He glanced at Mrs. Miller. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No, sir, no one has."

"All right, then," said Sir Henry amiably. "We'll have a late dinner and a little welcome for you, Mr. Holmes, all in one. The dining room's just over here, and Dr. Watson can show you where you can wash first if you would like…"

As Holmes followed Watson, Mrs. Miller rushed upstairs and knocked on her wards' door.

"Girls!" she hissed, knocking constantly. "It's time for dinner! Mr. Holmes has arrived and Sir Henry looks in a happy mood, so wear something nice! No browns or greys, please—I am speaking directly to you, Miss Tsura—girls, open this door _this instant_, I refuse to keep whispering through the wood like a common burglar—"

"Mrs. Miller?"

The chaperone turned to find both girls standing behind her, looking at her as though she had gone mad.

"We were helping Mrs. Barrymore set a room for Mr. Holmes," said Mirela, discreetly stepping on Tsura's foot when the younger girl snickered at their chaperone's foolish expression. Thank heavens for these long English dresses. "You've said he has already arrived?"

"…Yes," said Mrs. Miller lamely, trying not to focus on the fact that she had been hissing at a door. "And it is…it is time for dinner."  
"Shall we change?" Mirela prompted.

"No, no…just come down, girls…"

By the time the three reached the dining room, Mrs. Miller had recovered fully from her embarrassment; in fact, to the girls' amusement, before crossing the threshold their chaperone actually stopped to pat at her hair and smoothen her skirt.

Even Mirela could not suppress a smirk at that.

"Surely this Mr. Holmes is not so very handsome?" she murmured in Romany to Tsura, who was struggling to muffle her laughter.

"Even if he is, he won't want a dried up old cow like her!" Tsura responded, breaking out into giggles.

After taking a minute to compose themselves, the girls entered after Mrs. Miller, who immediately called attention to them by shrilly addressing the newcomer.

"Mr. Holmes!" she said, bustling over and half-dragging the girls behind her with that same horribly coquettish smile on her face. "Allow me to introduce you to my wards, the Misses Cadieux! This is the elder, Miss Mirela, and the younger, Miss Tsura."

Mirela and Tsura curtsied politely. The younger gave the detective a cursory glance and, unimpressed and uninterested, looked elsewhere; the elder met his gaze levelly and studied him in a manner that reminded Watson much of Holmes himself. The intensity of her gaze bordered on insolence, and an increasingly distressed Mrs. Miller, who was surprised by the level of presumption in whom she thought was the more sensible of the two young ladies, was about to intervene with yet another shrill remark when Mirela spoke.

"I take it you will be happy to sleep in a bed tonight," she said quietly. "Stone huts are not particularly comfortable, are they, Mr. Holmes?"

Watson started; Holmes blinked; Tsura frowned at her sister; and Mrs. Miller's brow crinkled.

"A stone hut?" she echoed, utterly perplexed. "Mirela dear, what _are_ you talking about?"  
"Nothing, Mrs. Miller," said Mirela after the briefest of pauses, finally breaking eye contact. She looked at her chaperone and smiled. "Nothing at all. Shall we eat?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Yes, I am alive, and yes, I know how long it has been. I am very, very, terribly sorry for the delay (and when I said I hoped to have a chapter up in "two or three" days, too!) but Life got in the way. Life is still in the way, in fact, but I thought I'd post this measly excuse for a chapter anyway. One-third of a chapter is better than nothing, in my opinion.**

**Merci beaucoup to those of you who followed, favourited, or reviewed. The time you take to do so is much appreciated, I assure you. :) **

**Also—one of you expressed some skepticism regarding this, as HotB has never seemed a story which provokes thoughts of romance. The short answer: I agree that it doesn't. The (slightly) longer answer: I don't want to give too much away, but this will (when Life stops being such a blockhead) probably go beyond the Hound of the Baskervilles. So if any of you are worried about Holmes "pulling a Watson" and proposing to a lady he's only known for a day, don't fret. Some of you might get annoyed and shout "LIAR!" as soon as you read the first sentence, but don't panic. No romance, I promise. Not for a while, anyway.**

**Bonne lecture.**

_"What a very attractive woman!"_

_ "Is she? I did not observe."_

_ "You really are an automaton—a calculating machine! There is something positively inhuman in you at times."_

_ He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to allow your judgement to be biased by personal qualities…the emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor."_

—**The Sign of Four; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

In all his thirty-four years on earth, he had never seen such eyes.

As the residents of Baskerville Hall hastened to sit and take their dinner, Holmes observed the elder Cadieux girl, who sat to the left of her chaperone, with a great deal more curiosity than he had had originally.

Despite the implication created from his initial thought, her eyes were not especially remarkable in colour. Indeed, they were a rather deep, rather unpretentious black, as dark as a raven's wing or—more accurately—a fiery coal. In fact, if one went by convention the younger sister's golden colour was far more striking, though the eyes of both girls had the same size, the same thick eyelashes and foreign shape.

No, Miss Mirela's eyes distinguished themselves not by any singularity of appearance, but a decided _look_ about them. As opposed to the wide-eyed, cheerful, slightly impudent look of Miss Tsura's, Miss Mirela's gaze held a certain suspicion, a slightly canny expression; almost as if she _knew_ the man in her sight had a secret and she was determined to find it out.

But—he _had_ no secret. Did he? Or did admiration of the finest pair of eyes he had ever seen count as a secret?

Not that he was taken in or anything. Not at all. Sherlock Holmes would never—_ever_—be taken in by such a silly characteristic. After all, Miss Nancy Smythe had had a rather pleasing countenance, and what had she done? Poisoned her brother's children for their insurance-money, that's what! Of course he would not think any differently of Miss Mirela, simply due to her eyes, no matter how inimitable they were.

She was a factor, after all. A unit. Just like her ludicrously persnickety chaperone and her ordinary younger sister. Just like everybody else he knew.

But then she had spoken, and he realised she was not at all like everybody else. Certainly she was unlike any other woman he knew.

_"I take it you will happy to sleep in a bed tonight. Stone huts are not particularly comfortable, are they, Mr. Holmes?"_

He had only just prevented himself from starting as Watson did; and, as Miss Mirela finally looked away and suggested they eat, Holmes found his mind whirling.

How could she know? Surely she had not seen him—Watson had mentioned the girls rarely went out into the moor for walks. Had she seen Cartwright, perhaps? No—the boy had not taken one step out of line, had not deviated one millimeter from his instructions.

Had she deduced it? It would be so very difficult a task, he acknowledged—but for him! Not for some chit of a girl with the most astonishing eyes he had ever seen!

The instant this thought occurred to him, he berated himself roundly. It was unfair and ungracious of him to expect that he was the only person with such powers of deduction. Did not his brother possess them in an even greater capacity? Had not _the_ woman managed to outwit him? He was the only consulting detective, but that did not mean no other person _could_ do as he did.

Still, it rankled that she had determined everything so easily. Furthermore, she seemed to also understand, instinctively, that the fact of his recent living quarters must remain a secret one, and had hurried to cover her comment with prompts of dinner.

Even worse, according to Watson (and his admirable but risible claim that the Misses Cadieux may have something to do with Sir Charles's death), she knew much about chemistry. Chemistry! Was she _trying_ to put him out of business?

Clearly she was a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps one almost as formidable as Stapleton.

The thought of Stapleton sobered him immediately. Clever young women with odd eyes could wait. Sir Henry's safety was of utmost importance…

…and the fact that the man himself had been trying to speak to him for the past two minutes.

"…quite all right, Mr. Holmes?"  
Holmes came back to the present with a jolt.

"I beg your pardon!" he said, nettled at being caught unawares. "I was—thinking—and rather deeply, I'm afraid."

"Perfectly fine," replied the baronet, though he sounded rather irritated. "I was wanting to know if you had any further ideas?"

"A few, though there is a point or two which I should like to confirm before stating them," he said, frowning down at his tepid dinner. "Dear me! I suppose this _was_ a hot dinner to start, Watson, and it is my usual negligence that has cooled it?"

"Miss Tsura, _do_ stop your chattering, I can hardly hear—I'll have Mrs. Barrymore warm it, Mr. Holmes, if you should like," Mrs. Miller cut in eagerly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Miller, but I think taste shall compensate for temperature. As I was saying, Sir Henry, I am quite sure I can muzzle our supposedly supernatural hound—however, you must promise to do as I say, and blindly."  
"If your direction rids us of that damnable hound, I'll gladly obey you, Mr. Holmes."  
"Good, very good. I have no doubt that this matter shall be—"

He broke off and stared fixedly at the wall across from him. He knew, from Watson's reports, that a succession of portraits lined this wall; but what Watson had failed to mention (likely because he had not noticed, a circumstance Holmes could not resist sighing at) was that the one of a deceptively docile Cavalier whom he assumed was Sir Hugo Baskerville, was pretty much Stapleton in seventeenth-century garb.

Stapleton set the hound on Sir Charles Baskerville. Stapleton tried to kill Sir Henry as well. Stapleton had no blatant motive.

Sir Hugo Baskerville looked like a plumed and wigged version of Stapleton.

Stapleton, therefore, had a blatant motive.

"What?" asked Sir Henry, Watson, and Mrs. Miller in unison. Even Miss Tsura had ceased her prattling. "What is it?"

Holmes pulled himself together. "Your portraits!" he cried suddenly, struggling to contain his delight. "Ah—I am a connoisseur, you see, though Watson insists on saying I haven't the smallest understanding of art—we have different tastes, you must know—and these are really very fine portraits you have here…"

Ignoring Miss Tsura, who was looking at him as though he had just announced his intention to join the circus, and trying his best not to burst into amused laughter at the perplexed expressions on everyone else's faces, Holmes ascertained from Sir Henry the identity of the man in the portrait (Sir Hugo, as he had supposed) and, after another minute's scrutiny, decided that Stapleton had a very blatant motive, indeed.

He let his queries fall into silence; after an awkward lull Miss Tsura turned to her sister and spoke.

"Miss Tsura!" Mrs. Miller snapped, more sharply than usual. "It is rude enough that you speak your gibberish around me, but surely you have more sense than to exclude our guests as well!"

Miss Tsura flushed with annoyance; but Holmes spoke.

"I do not mind," he said calmly, and then, addressing the sisters he said—in Romany, of all languages!—"And yes, I did have a point for mentioning the portraits."

**Seeing as, in the canon, it is implied that Holmes knows French, German, Latin, Italian, and some Greek, I don't think Romany is too much of a stretch.**

**Do you?**

**Until next time, which will be (hopefully) sometime soon.**


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